


Digby

by breathtaken



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Asexual Character, Dogs, Gen, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6775648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two burglaries; one murder; one weird dog – and DI Chandler can't get any of them out of his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheVeryLastValkyrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/gifts).



> Set at some point during the time jump following S03E02. Joe's OCD is a recurring theme, though it's no worse than in canon.
> 
> For Bella, because Digby is as much hers as mine.

****It was Kent who found the dog.

It was the last thing any of them had expected when he opened the cupboard under the stairs, only metres from Ron Smallwood’s body. Though it had retreated as far as it could behind an unruly, almost-dog-height stack of cardboard boxes spewing VHS tapes and other assorted tat, there was still enough dog visible for Joe to see it was a Labrador – or something that looked like a Labrador, dogs not really being his strong suit – with only half a coat to speak of, exposed patches of red, angry-looking skin showing through the fur.

It did not bark, or growl. Nor did it approach them, just stayed perfectly still and regarded them silently, its large, dark eyes flashing in the gloom.

Kent crouched down and patted his thighs, coaxing, “Come on, boy,” but the dog did not move, only the minutest turn of its head indicating that it had heard at all. Riley tried next, and then Jamila from SOCO, both to no avail; and Joe was just starting to consider whether it was wise to send one of them inside the cupboard to drag it out and/or whether they could just work around it when Riley returned from the kitchen with a bowl of dog food, which she pushed just inside the cupboard door.

The moment she stepped away the dog lunged forward, and started to wolf it down.

“Poor thing,” she sighed, leaning back against the wall and folding her arms. “How long do we think he’s been shut up in there? Day and a half, two days?”

“He’ll make himself sick if he eats like that,” Kent commented, although he made no move to try and intervene.

Between the competing scents of corpse and dog food, Joe was starting to feel rather nauseous himself – and to top it all off, there was Lizzie Pepper. Faltering in the front doorway with a handful of evidence bags clutched protectively against her chest, and that confused, slightly hurt expression she always wore when she saw him, as though she still wasn’t sure what had happened.

She probably wasn’t. He’d tried to explain as best he could without actually explaining anything about himself at all, and had beaten a hasty retreat as soon as possible.

If only he hadn’t listened to Miles.

If only he didn’t long for that connection – for someone to truly _know_ him – even more than he feared it.

“Riley, Kent, you two can take it from here.” He was already reaching for his Blackberry, only to realise he was still wearing a protective coverall and his Blackberry was on the other side of it, and having to turn the movement into an awkward smoothing of fabric instead. “I’ll call the RSPCA.”

Out in the street the chilly air was a shock to the system, and he found himself stamping his feet ineffectually as he unzipped the white suit far enough to reach reach his phone, longing for a cup of tea, or something more interesting than a burglary-turned-murder, something to get his teeth into. Since the Sly Driscoll case everything that had crossed his desk had been painfully routine, and it was starting to eat at him, in ways he didn’t want to examine too closely. In ordered, inflexible, fives-and-tens kinds of ways.

There was something unsettling about the way that dog had looked at them all, white-suited and crouched around his master as he lay dead on the floor – and when it came to him he found himself slumping against the wall, the texture of the brickwork rough through the latex gloves he still wore. They were the same eyes he’d once seen in a boy of ten – Peter Wallis, he knew he would never forget that name, or not feel newly nauseous to remember it – that had haunted him for weeks after. Eyes that were not just sad but _old_ , heavy with the terrible weight of knowledge that no-one should have borne, especially not a child.

He knew why he did what he did, but sometimes he felt so _stained_ with it that he couldn’t imagine ever being clean again.

He sighed, and pulled out his phone.

 

* * *

 

There were eight surgical tools laid out on the steel tray at the far side of the plate glass window they stood behind, and the third from the left was very slightly misaligned. The sight made Joe’s fingers itch.

“The cause of death was a heart attack brought on by blunt force trauma to the base of the skull, from a heavy cylindrical object. I’ve found wood fibres which suggest something like a baseball bat.” Dr Llewellyn spoke slightly too loudly for the benefit of the intercom system; Joe gritted his teeth. “No signs of a struggle, and the only fibres under the nails appear to be from the deceased’s own carpet. It was quick.”

“I’d wager they were just trying to knock him out,” Miles said, at Joe’s side. “Got lucky, or not.”

Dr Llewellyn nodded. “That’s consistent with my findings,” she replied, the closest she ever got to agreeing with them.

The tension was building across Joe’s forehead like a wire strung tight, and he resisted the urge to massage his temples for what must be the fifth time this morning. It was the strip lighting, probably, or the lack of sleep. Or he was just losing it. Something was definitely making him vaguely anxious, although he couldn’t tell what, just felt the sense of it hanging over him like an oncoming storm.

He would have liked to say it was copper’s intuition, but of course he knew better.

He’d waited until the man from the RSPCA came to take the dog away, despite his words to his team. Riley had found a lead and a navy blue dog coat from somewhere, though Joe could swear the animal still shivered as he reluctantly let the man lead him over the threshold, and not just from the cold. In fact the sight of it had been so affecting that he’d had to turn away for a moment, looking back just in time to see the same dark, unblinking eyes looking straight at him from the cage in the back of the van, before the doors slammed shut –

He jumped when Miles whacked him in the upper arm, and realised Dr Llewellyn was already zipping up the body bag. “Come on. Forensics should be in by now.”

“What about the dog?” Joe found himself saying, and could have kicked himself for it.

Miles gave him the look he normally reserved for one of Joe’s DCs when they were being particularly thick. “I don’t think they do forensics on dogs.”

 

* * *

 

Resist it as he did, it only took a few days for it to become clear: he _was_ getting worse. He woke from a dream of himself, trying to run but moving as if through treacle, his arms and legs ignoring every desperate signal from his mind, knowing all the while that time was running out; turning his head through supreme effort of will to see the dog watching him, statue-still, the sadness of a god in those deep, dark eyes –

He was sweat-sheened, gasping as if he really had run a mile, and had to wash himself five times in the shower, spend the better part of twenty minutes dressing and drink a double vodka neat before he felt remotely calm enough to leave the house. The walk to work only did a little to clear his head, and certainly not enough for him to feel really ready to deal with other people; and when he walked into the incident room he was hit with a wall of noise that nearly floored him, Kent and Miles both on the phone and Riley and Mansell talking at the same time – how the hell could they talk _and_ listen to each other, if either of them was even listening – and he was already reaching for his tiger balm when –

“– it was the dog!”

“What?”

His voice came out louder and sharper than he intended, in his surprise; and they both fell abruptly silent, even Miles raising his head from the other side of the room.

He made himself take a slow breath in and out before trying again. “What was the dog?”

“Digby!” At his blank look, Mansell explained: “The card on Smallwood’s mantelpiece? Ron and Digby? Digby was the dog.”

“Of course,” Joe agreed, not that he remembered anything about a card. Thank God for detective constables.

Still. Perhaps he could at least manage to be less unsettled by his lingering memories of the animal now he knew it had a name like Digby.

Or perhaps it was nothing more than a metaphor for one of the darker and messier parts of his psyche – one that felt a lot like his father – in which case it would make no real difference.

“Boss?” Miles had appeared at his elbow, which made Joe realise just how little attention he’d been paying to his surroundings. “Let’s go into your office a moment.”

_Calm and in charge. Calm and in charge._

He nodded. “Of course.”

He followed Miles into his office, closing the door softly behind him and starting to reach for the light switch before remembering what he’d done to it, something in the ghost of the memory staying his hand. Instead he hung his coat on its usual peg, set his briefcase down exactly in line with the desk, and switched on the lamp before sitting down opposite Miles, unable to help reaching out and adjusting the manila file his sergeant had plonked down in front of him, so that it was at right angles to the desk.

The look Miles gave him made Joe fairly sure he’d done it deliberately.

“How are you doing?”

For as long as he could remember, there had been maybe three people in the world to whom Joe in this moment would not have said ‘fine’. He was still getting used to the idea of Miles being the fourth.

Instead, he admitted, “I keep thinking about that dog. Smallwood’s dog. I don’t really know why.”

He stopped short, for now, of saying that sometimes there was no why. That sometimes he got thoughts – fears – in his head and couldn’t shake them, no matter what he logically knew to be true.

Miles pursed his lips for a moment, then gave an approving nod. “I saw the photos. You two might be good together.”

He wasn’t even joking; Joe gave a huff of disbelief that was almost a laugh. “Not – not like that. I mean, can you imagine?” He spread his hands: _me, and a dog._ It was so ridiculous it didn’t even need saying.

“Why not? You’d have some companionship,” Miles argued. “Better than rattling around that massive flat on your own.”

Joe could only imagine his own facial expression; and though Miles raised his eyebrows, at least he didn’t press the point. Joe wasn’t sure he’d entirely recovered from Miles’ last attempt at ‘improving’ his personal life.

“So what then, if you’re not planning to adopt?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated, lacing his fingers together, unlacing them again. Laid his hands palm-flat on the table, even though he knew that wasn’t a normal thing to do with one’s hands, that it was an obvious tell. “He never made a sound, the whole time we were there. He was – grieving, I think.”

Miles nodded. “Makes sense. They know, dogs do.”

_Of course they do._

And here he was, feeling like he understood nothing at all.

Miles was getting to his feet. “Are you gonna join me, then?”

Joe opened his mouth and then paused, because how to explain without sounding like a madman that it was still too _much_ , that he didn’t –

Miles’ expression softened just a fraction. “Or do you want half an hour?”

Of course, Miles had seen him far worse than this, as much as he tried to pretend otherwise.

“Half an hour,” Joe agreed, trying not to sound grateful as Miles let himself out, the noise from the incident room washing through the office in a thankfully brief wave.

He sighed and reached into his pocket, unscrewed the lid of the tiger balm and dabbed a little on his temples, screwing it shut again and placing it on his desk. He got up and fixed Miles’ chair, which was slightly off-centre; sat back down, laid out his watch, Blackberry and police badge, in the correct order. Finally he opened the middle drawer of his desk and took out five packets of ten HB pencils each, never used, laying them out in front of him one by one.

He took a breath and reached for the first packet, trying not to hate himself for his weakness, trying not to think about Digby the dog.

 

* * *

 

Joe lasted less than an hour in the incident room before it became clear to him that he was in no fit state to lead an investigation; fortunately he had Miles, and so he spent the rest of the day holed up in his office working through his team’s entire paperwork backlog, or at least trying to.

When he looked up from Mansell’s scrawled notes mid-sentence to see him beating in Smallwood’s head himself as the dog looked on, he scrambled for his hip flask with hands that shook, taking a hurried swig of vodka in the hope it would calm his pounding heart.

He couldn’t work like this.

Perhaps if he went to see it. He knew any therapist worth the money would caution against engaging intrusive thoughts – he’d heard it more times than he could count – but this could hardly make things worse. He needed to see it with his own eyes, and remember that it was just a dog. Not a symbol that he’d built up inside his head, of judgement or condemnation – _for what_ , it was a robbery that turned into a murder and _I didn’t do anything wrong –_

He got to his feet.

It had to be worth a try; anything was better than this. The constant threat of uncleanliness, disorder, disaster, that was one thing, but if he started to turn it around in his head, become the _perpetrator –_

He would go and see the dog. And then he would go home, drink heavily enough to bear it, and let the thoughts wash over him until he could accept that they were just thoughts and nothing more, even though the idea of it was enough to make him want to claw his way out of his own skin.

It was only just past four and he couldn’t have been in before half nine, but when Miles saw Joe stepping out of his office with his coat already on, he just raised a hand in greeting and called out, “Evening, boss,” as if there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Joe was extraordinarily grateful for Miles, really.

“Have a good evening,” he replied, looking around the incident room and making sure he included everyone in his gaze, trying not to think about the amount of mess they’d all no doubt leave behind them and him not there to clean it up, or the reality of what he was about to do.

He got the bus down to Battersea, watching the city lights as they passed by, the fine film of rain collecting on the window. Buses were better than the Tube, at least: they had windows that could be opened, and he was wearing gloves, didn’t have to worry about touching anything that hundreds of others had touched before him.

 _God,_ he desperately needed a new case. Something he could really get his teeth into, a break from all this tedious bread-and-butter work that had been giving him far too much time inside his own head.

Something would turn up, the Commander had promised him as much. And meanwhile he would see the bloody dog, and he would get over himself.

When he pushed open the door of the dogs’ home, the woman behind the desk looked up from her computer and said apologetically, “Sorry, the last admission’s four pm, unless you’re here to claim a lost pet.”

“DI Chandler, Whitechapel Police.” He flashed his badge. It was _technically_ police business, he decided, given that the investigation was still open. “We had a dog brought here on the seventh. Sandy-coloured, a Labrador or something like that, missing half his coat. Inflamed skin.”

“Of course.” Her face creased in sympathy. “I was up at intake that day, I remember him coming in. We called him Charlie.”

“His name’s Digby, it turns out.”

“Digby. I’ll amend the record.” She tapped a couple of keys, and then looked back up at him. “How can I help? Do you need something from us?”

 _Shit._ He really should have spent some of his precious time thinking of what he was going to say when he actually got here.

But it was too late now; and so he simply said, “I need to see him,” relying on the authority of his position.

She hesitated – and as the moment stretched out, he was just starting to worry she’d ask for an explanation he didn’t have when she nodded, and replied, “Of course. If you could wait a moment while I ask my colleague to cover reception, I’ll be happy to take you.”

His escort – Kate, according to her badge – led him down a series of corridors that smelled strongly animal, the sounds of barking becoming steadily louder as they went, the combination making Joe feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“Just at the end here,” she said, leading him into a narrow room with animal pens lining both walls, the noise picking up a notch as the dogs within them registered their entrance. “It’s coming up to feeding time, they always get a bit livelier. Not this one, though.”

Joe looked over the low door beside him to see Digby, his fur even patchier than Joe remembered, curled up in a bed against the far wall. He lifted his head from his paws when they approached, but made no move to greet them.

“I don’t think he’s made a sound since he came in,” Kate murmured beside him. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“We found his owner murdered and him shut in a cupboard.”

“Poor thing. Would you like to go in?”

“No, I –”

Joe faltered, unsure how to explain that he didn’t actually know what he was doing here in the first place. The dog was just a dog; how could he ever have thought otherwise?

Kate put a brief hand on his arm. “You should. It might do him some good.”

He couldn’t. His _suit,_ for one thing – and animals meant germs –

 _For God’s sake_ , he told himself firmly. He had hand sanitiser in his bag, and what would he sound like if he told her he was worried about his _suit?_

He nodded, and made himself say, “I’d like that.”

Inside the pen he crouched down, making sure the hem of his coat didn’t brush the floor, and held out an ungloved hand. “Hey, Digby,” he said, in that low, coaxing voice he always heard people use for animals and children – and that got a response, he could see in Digby’s face that he had his attention. “How are you, boy?”

Digby didn’t move, though Joe could still feel his gaze on him like a weight.

“We’re doing all we can. For Ron.” He was acutely conscious of Kate behind him, listening, but he had to say something. “Somebody will have seen something or heard something. In cases like this, they always have. It just takes time to find them.”

It was strange – it was impossible – but Joe could have sworn at that moment that something relaxed in the set of Digby’s shoulders. That somehow he understood, and believed.

“He’s going to be difficult to re-home, you know.”

Joe blinked, and looked up at Kate. “I’m sorry?”

“Most people are looking for friendly, outgoing dogs. And with the extra care he’ll need for that coat, it’d be someone special who’d be willing to take him on.”

 _You and me both, Digby,_ Joe couldn’t help thinking.

“It’s not stress-related, then?”

“We think the stress might have made it worse, but no, it’s an old problem. Alopecia, some eczema as well.” She paused meaningfully. “But I think that if you give him time and space to get used to you, he’ll be worth it.”

Joe stared at her, for a moment lost for words.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually managed, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding –”

Him – and a _dog –_

He didn’t mind them as a rule, even thought some of them were quite sweet, but that was only as long as they were someone else’s. A dog in _his_ space, with _his_ things, with its hair and spit and piss and vomit –

He got to his feet, brushing himself down, careful not to brush himself down too much, insisting, “I couldn’t possibly.”

“Inspector. You’re not here on police business, are you?”

If there had been any doubt, his facial expression would probably give him away; but just in case, he pointed out, “This is still an open investigation.”

Kate raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure dogs make particularly good witnesses.”

He couldn’t help huffing a laugh. “No worse than people.”

“And you’re clearly taken with him.”

He sighed. “Look. It wouldn’t work. I live alone – in a flat – and I work horrendously long hours sometimes. And I’m – I’m very particular. It would simply be too much, for both of us.”

He looked over at Digby, searching for confirmation; Digby looked back at him. He was just as silent, just as still – but his silence and stillness seemed different now, or perhaps Joe had just come to understand better: it was resignation.

He was resigned to being unwanted, to being alone.

Joe had spent so long trying to hide from his own loneliness he wasn’t sure he could say how long it had been, or how deeply it ran, or that he wanted to know the answer. He knew his chances of happiness with another person were minuscule, but perhaps –

Kate smiled, and Joe knew he’d surrender.

“You can just take him for a trial period, if you’d like. See how it goes.”

He found himself saying, “I’d like that.”

As if on cue, Digby got to his feet.

 

* * *

 

Forty-five minutes later Joe was back on the bus, only this time he was holding a lead, with a dog at the other end of it.

All it had taken after that was paperwork. ID, personal details, a lifestyle questionnaire and an appointment for a home visit in a week’s time. Kate gave him a branded plastic bag containing a few sachets of dog food and some informational pamphlets, including a checklist of everything he’d need to get started: a bed, bowls for food and water, toys – though he wasn’t sure Digby was really the playing with toys type.

He’d been good as gold so far. Once the lead was clipped onto his collar and his blue coat fastened under his belly he’d followed Joe without protestation, only stopping once along the way to lift his leg against a lamppost. He hadn’t been fazed by the idea of getting on the bus or taken any notice of the other passengers, but sat obediently by Joe’s feet, a just little too still for Joe to think he might be anything like relaxed.

When Joe reached down and patted him on the head, he didn’t respond.

_What have I done?_

The temptation to panic was always there, buzzing in his mind like a mosquito, but he was going to keep it together. He wasn’t going to crack up, because he didn’t have that luxury right now. There were some old towels in the linen closet he could use tonight in place of a proper bed; he’d even sacrifice some of his crockery to the cause if he had to.

He’d do all of this because it was the right thing to do – and because while he may not be able to bring Smallwood back, this was what he _could_ do. Offer his home; a refuge, such as it was.

Companionship, such as it was.

He’d gone mad. He’d actually, literally gone mad.

They were coming up to their stop.

He pressed the button, and stood. “Come on, boy,” he said encouragingly, giving a gentle tug on the lead and walking over to the door, Digby following obediently behind.

 

* * *

 

He’d been trying to read for what felt like hours now, but just couldn’t concentrate. Every time he read a page or two, his eyes would slip over the top of his book to where Digby lay curled up on the pile of towels opposite him, next to the television. His eyes were open, but distant; he wasn’t looking at Joe. He appeared to be looking at nothing at all.

Joe forced himself to read another two sentences, and realised he had no context for them at all, not having retained a single idea since he started the chapter.

He took another gulp of vodka, and put his book down beside him on the sofa.

“Look. I don’t know how to do this.” He felt vaguely silly speaking to a dog, given that Digby couldn’t actually understand him – but for his own sake at least, he supposed it needed to be said. “I don’t know what you need, I – most days I barely know what _I_ need.” His fingers were tapping a frantic rhythm against the leather of the armrest; he drained the rest of his glass in one gulp.

“What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t do this. I can’t –”

He wanted nothing more than to count – _no._ He needed to _talk_ to someone. Someone who could see clearly, because he could feel himself starting to get to that point where he couldn’t tell his fears from _himself_ any more, and that really was the scariest thing of all.

He fumbled for his Blackberry, and called the number of the one person who truly knew him.

The sound of the dial tone made him wish he’d poured himself another drink first; but before he could get up, it cut off abruptly as the call was answered.

“ _Hello stranger!”_

“Alice.” _Thank God._ “Hi. Is now a good time?”

“ _For you, always. How are you doing?”_

For a moment he could imagine her, clear as day: the phone wedged between neck and shoulder and a baby on the other hip, chubby hands clutching at her ponytail – before he remembered that the twins were nearly ten now and she was short-haired and greying at the temples, and more time had passed than he knew what to do with.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long.” He couldn’t remember speaking to her since that disastrous date-that-wasn’t, when she’d listened as he told the story and then reassured him that he had the boundaries he had for a reason, and that it was okay not to force himself to act like everyone else, because he wasn’t like everyone else at all.

He took a deep breath, and made himself say, “The thing is… I suspect I’ve done something rather stupid.”

Digby was looking at him again.

Joe decided that he rather wished he wouldn’t.

“ _And what’s that, then?_ ”

“I’ve adopted a dog.”

There was a moment of complete silence – before Alice burst out laughing. “ _Joe. You’re joking!_ ”

“I’m not joking at all.”

He realised he was tapping again, and Digby was watching his fingers; the embarrassment was worse than the itch.

“His name’s Digby.”

“ _Digby.”_

In the silence that followed he could imagine her going into the living room and flopping down on the sofa, getting nice and comfortable and ready to interrogate him.

“ _Right_ ,” she said a few seconds later, “ _Tell me everything_.”

It took less time than Joe expected to tell the full story from beginning to end. He was careful not to leave anything out, even confessing to how he couldn’t get the memory of Digby out of his head – _fixating,_ he didn’t say, knowing she would be thinking it all the same – concluding that here he was now, with a dog, and no idea what the hell to do about it.

“It’s been getting to me, he finished, restless fingers opening the drawer of his coffee table and picking out one of the puzzles he kept, a series of interlocking silver rings. “Everything has. And – I’m scared.”

The same _scared_ he had been when he had feared he’d never be able to live a normal life, graduate university or hold down a job, that he’d be a slave to obsessions and compulsions all his life. When he had been in love with her, and she with him, and they still couldn’t make each other happy.

The same _scared_ he is now to think that he’ll always be alone.

“ _Oh, darling_.” He could hear the sympathy in her voice, and wished for a moment more than anything that he were there, or she was here, and could hold him until he felt a little better. “ _Tell me, why do you think you did it? And not because you’re losing your mind. Find the logic in it._ ”

“Well. Because the lady at Battersea was right.” The metal rings went clink, clink, clink as he turned them over and over in his hand, slowly warming. “It would have been nearly impossible to re-home him, the way he is.”

“ _But that doesn’t mean it falls to you._ ”

“No. But I felt sorry for him.”

“ _Still not a reason._ ”

Joe couldn’t help smiling. Alice had exactly the same gift Miles had, of knowing exactly when not to let up on him.

“Okay, okay. I – felt like I owed him, a little. For what happened to his owner. I know it’s stupid – I can’t hold myself personally responsible for every life that’s lost – but it _is_ my job to see it right, as far as is within my power. And – I saw what he saw. I know what he’s gone through, and who he must have been. I won’t let it be forgotten.”

He hadn’t realised it was true until he said it.

“ _And you know what it’s like to be thought too difficult to be worth bothering with._ ”

Fortunately she didn’t wait for him to reply before continuing, “ _That sounds like pretty solid reasoning to me. I think you’ll be just fine._ ”

“But he’s a _dog_. I’ll have to look after him.”

He could hear the glee in her voice when she added, “ _And pick up after him._ ”

Joe winced. “Oh, _God_.”

He had been trying to avoid thinking about that part.

“ _But he’ll get used to you, and in time he’ll soak up your love like a sponge. And you’ll have an excuse for cleaning as often as you want._ ” Her chuckle was warm and inclusive. “ _Bring him over, when he’s ready. Mike and the twins will love him, and you and I haven’t seen each other in far too long._ ”

“I will. I promise.”

“ _Good. Now make sure you’re sitting comfortably, because I’m about to tell you all about Douchebag’s latest exploits._ ”

For the next half-hour Alice regaled him with the latest updates from her family, friends and one particularly awful co-worker; and when Joe finally hung up he was actually relaxed, more than he’d thought would be possible in the circumstances.

“That was Alice,” he said to Digby. “She’s… family, really. She’s the only one who’s stuck by me.” He hesitated, but made himself voice the thought: “The only one I knew how to keep.”

Even though he was a dog, Digby looked like he was listening. Like on some level at least, he might just understand.

After that it was much easier to concentrate on his reading, until half past ten when he emailed Miles to say he wouldn’t be in tomorrow and to call him if anything came up, then took a long hot shower, letting the water soothe him. _I’m an adult_ , he reminded himself; _I’ve got this._ He just needed to not let his anxiety get the better of him.

He came out of the bathroom, checked Digby’s food and water, that the door was locked and everything that could be switched on was switched off, and went over to Digby’s bed and patted him on the head. “Good night, boy.”

Then he poured himself a glass of water and carried it through to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He’d been in bed less than five minutes before the scratching at the door started, accompanied by a low whine.

Torn between sympathy and annoyance, and concern for any possible damage, Joe forced himself back out of bed and opened the door to see Digby standing there, somehow managing to convey indignant despite his lack of a facial expression.

“Come on, then,” Joe sighed, retrieving the makeshift bed from the living room and laying it out on the floor at the foot of his own bed.

“Good night, boy,” he said again, getting back into bed and turning off the light; and though he thought it would take him a while to get used to the periodic snuffling sounds coming from the floor, before long he was fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

The next morning he awoke to find a canine face just inches from his, dark brown eyes regarding him unblinkingly; and he yet out the kind of yelp that would have been undignified even from Digby.

“Jesus Christ!”

Adrenaline was rushing through him and his heart pounding in his chest, and he glared at Digby, who looked thoroughly unconcerned.

“Could you maybe not do that?” Joe asked, with little hope of an answer.

Digby cocked his head slightly to one side, as though considering the proposal, and then turned and padded from the room, presumably in the direction of his food bowl.

They ate their breakfast – though Joe was nearly put off his by the smell of that dog food, and made a mental note to find a less pungent alternative – following which he spent a minute deep breathing and just a little too long washing his hands, before arming himself with about twenty plastic food bags and then retrieving Digby’s coat and lead from the hall table, calling out experimentally, “Walkies!”

The air was sharp outside and the sky still barely light, and as he led Digby in a brisk lap around the local park, Joe felt as if he’d been inducted into a secret society of dog-walkers, broken up by the occasional jogger. People of all kinds passed him by with dogs of all shapes and sizes, wishing him a good morning, and asking for nothing in return; and it made him contented in a way he hadn’t been for a while, even though he couldn’t quite forget that it was the early morning dog-walkers who normally found the bodies.

It was unexpectedly satisfying to feel a part of something with its own rules, without all the stress and uncertainty he normally associated with socialising. Somewhere he could just _be._

He was feeling optimistic enough that when Digby squatted down on a convenient patch of grass, Joe only hesitated for a moment before gritting his teeth, sheathing his gloved hand with three plastic bags, and doing what had to be done.

He might never feel _good_ about it, he decided, as he threw the offending matter in the specially provided bin and fought down the urge to go straight home and wash his hands _right now_ – but at least he could manage it. For Digby, who if Joe wasn’t mistaken had already gained just a little more spring in his step: where last night he had been firmly uninterested in his surroundings, now he was nosing cautiously at hedgerows and watching the ducks on the lake, though he still gave other dogs a wide berth.

 _Like a normal dog,_ Joe thought, not a little proudly.

He took the car to the shops – sacrificing yet another towel to keep the dog hair off the back seat – and he was an industrial-size bag of dog biscuits, two dog beds and three fleece blankets richer when his phone rang.

 _Miles. Damn_ , he thought, his other hand tightening unconsciously on Digby’s lead.

“ _Boss. Sorry to interrupt your day off.”_

“Not at all. How can I help?”

“ _There’s been another one._ ”

Joe’s stomach lurched; he leaned into the car door, mostly for the feeling of something solid at his back.

“ _The victim’s still alive this time._ _I’ve got a hunch it’s related_ _. I’ve left Riley and Mansell on Smallwood, Kent and I are on our way to the scene._ ”

Joe jumped when Digby gently headbutted him in the leg, before reaching down to give him an apologetic pat on the head. It vaguely registered that it was the first time he’d shown any active interest in him.

“What’s the address?”

“ _9 Coverley Close._ ”

“Coverley Close,” Joe repeated, scanning his mental map of London by car and multiplying by the probable traffic at this time of day. “Off Hanbury Street?”

“ _Yup, east end._ ”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, if I don’t hit traffic.”

“ _Right you are._ ”

“And – Miles? I need to bring a dog with me.”

 

* * *

 

On review of the crime scene, it was clear that Miles’ hunch had been right: it was the same MO. The same points of entry, no laptop or smartphone to be found, half a bootprint on the kitchen floor where a pool of congealed yoghurt met a pool of blood – and definitely not belonging to their victim, who from the contents of her wardrobe was at least five sizes smaller and favoured stiletto heels over heavy work boots.

Her name was Katya Jadczak, she was twenty-eight years old, single, with two housemates who appeared to be away for the weekend. She was in the intensive care unit at the Royal London Hospital, in a coma.

He couldn’t stop looking at the floor: the blood overlapping the yoghurt, ceramic shards on the lino, the solitary bootprint.

He caught Miles’ eye, and nodded towards the front door; they stepped outside, where he could see Priya, one of the uniforms, standing at the garden gate just inside the police cordon, Digby sitting obediently at her feet.

Joe gave into the urge to strip off his latex gloves and dab tiger balm on his temples, welcoming the way it stung as the cold air hit it.

“Next stop, the Royal London,” Miles said, turning to him. “So, what’s with the dog?”

Digby chose that moment to turn his head and stare at the two of them unblinkingly. Joe was fast deciding that he had a sense for when he was under discussion that was bordering on the uncanny.

“I’ve – adopted him, actually.”

Miles blinked. “You what?”

“I’ve adopted him,” Joe repeated – just as Kent appeared in the doorway and asked:

“Isn’t that Smallwood’s dog?”

There was a moment of stunned silence – then they both spoke at once:

“You’ve adopted _Smallwood’s dog_?!”

“You’ve _adopted_ him?!”

If it was possible, Kent looked even more surprised than Miles did – and a little outraged, for reasons Joe couldn’t quite guess at.

He resisted the temptation to put his head in his hands.

Joe didn’t quite know what he was expecting; but when Miles just shrugged and said, “Well, good for you,” he just gave a non-committal hum and went to retrieve his dog.

Unfortunately he still had to drive them both to the hospital: Miles in the passenger seat and Kent in the back next to Digby, who studiously ignored him.

They’d barely pulled out of the street when Miles looked sideways at Joe and said, “Bit weird, isn’t he?”

Well, Joe assumed he didn’t mean Kent.

“He’s been traumatised.”

Joe half-expected Miles to smirk – to say something along the lines of _trust you not to have a normal dog_ – but when he spoke again, his sergeant’s tone was thoughtful, even sympathetic. “Yeah, I can see it. I’m sure you’ll be good for each other.”

And it was that – even conscious of Kent behind them, listening – that made Joe hiss, “I don’t know what I’m doing, Miles! The hours we work –”

He couldn’t imagine leaving Digby at home alone, nightmare footage of coming home to find his flat destroyed looping through his mind until he realised he was gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hurt.

“So just bring him with you, I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Miles replied, as if it really was that easy. “No-one’s gonna care. We could probably do with the image boost.”

“You really think it’ll help?” Joe asked, somewhat dubiously.

He knew enough of what uniform had said about him – and probably still did, the aftershocks of the Krays case still being felt even now. But everyone liked dogs, didn’t they, and a dog being seen to like _him_ might just make him seem that little bit more normal.

“Definitely, sir!” Kent piped up from the back seat. “We could take turns walking him.”

“Well, then,” Joe said, unable to do anything about the fond smile stealing onto his face. “Welcome to the team, Digby.”

When he glanced in the rear-view mirror Digby was looking at him as unblinkingly as ever, but Joe couldn’t help feeling that he approved.

 

* * *

 

Kent and Miles were right: not just CID, but the entire station seemed to take to Digby with a level of enthusiasm which suggested to Joe at least that they were having an extremely slow week. It wasn’t long before Miles just started calling the bluff of all the uniforms who periodically shouldered their way into the incident room with increasingly tenuous excuses, cutting them off as soon as they opened their mouths to inform them that the dog was that way, and could they try and keep the noise down.

Joe had laid down some ground rules after the first few visitors, when he noticed how Digby was beginning to shrink away, reminding him uncomfortably of the way he felt in social situations; from that point on, when he was in his bed then he was to be left alone. It took him longer to train his team than it did to train his dog, though Joe wasn’t entirely sure if the way Digby took to doing regular rounds of the incident room and acted newly surprised every time he was made a fuss of was deliberate or not. (He was mostly unnerved by the way he kept sniffing around Mansell’s bin.)

The team took turns walking him mid-mornings, and Digby followed anyone who held his lead without complaint. He ate the food that was put in front of him and slept in his new bed on the floor in Joe’s bedroom, and after a few days Joe was even getting used to waking up just before his alarm to find Digby’s face inches from his own. In fact, he did nothing remarkable at all until their fourth nightly walk, when just as they were approaching the park entrance, Joe heard a loud, heavy thump coming from the other side of the hedge some fifty metres away, followed by the unmistakeable yelling of a man in pain.

Joe sped up – and it was only when the lead pulled taut behind him that he turned and saw Digby was stopped in his tracks, ears folded back, tension in every line of his body. His eyes glowed orange under the streetlights, and the effect was eerie even as Joe felt a pang of sympathy.

 _Of course._ Smallwood had been hit with something blunt and wooden – he must have cried out too.

“It’s okay, boy. Come on.” Joe gave the lead a gentle tug, but he wasn’t surprised when Digby ignored him entirely, his eyes fixed in position.

Joe took a step forward – and then hesitated, torn between the duty to go and see if the man was hurt or if a crime had been committed, and the fact that he couldn’t just _leave_ Digby here like this, and he certainly wouldn’t come –

“Hello?” he called out. “Is everything all right?”

He’d have to leave him here, then. Legally, morally – and he’d just have to hope Digby would still be here when he got back, that he wouldn’t have undone all the progress they’d made –

And then he heard low voices through the trees, someone laughing – drunkenly, he thought – and though he got no reply, he decided with a twinge of guilt that that would have to do.

He turned and walked back past Digby clicking his tongue. “Come on. Let’s go home,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, listening for the sound of Digby following behind – which, after a moment’s marked hesitation, he did.

Only now, Joe decided as the evening wore on, was it clear just how much better Digby had become over the last few days, now that he had once again reverted to the insular, disinterested creature Joe had first met, oscillating between tension and weariness in a manner all too familiar. He let Joe take off his coat and lead without any fuss, and ignored his food bowl in favour of sloping straight off to the bedroom and curling up in his bed, as if he were simply weary of being awake.

Joe wondered if there were dog therapists. Probably. At least one of those might be able to tell him what the hell to do with some measure of certainty.

In the absence of any other ideas he brushed his teeth, poured himself a glass of water, and exchanged his suit for pyjama bottoms, sneaking quick glances in the direction of the dog bed as he followed his usual routine. Digby’s head was on his paws, eyes open, and for a moment Joe ached with wanting to go to him, before pushing the feeling away, knowing there was nothing he could do.

Instead he got into bed, clicked off his bedside lamp and rolled onto his stomach, wishing his mind quiet.

He froze when he felt Digby jump on the bed, moving up to nudge a wet nose against his shoulder.

“Digby…” he started, trying to gently chide rather than think about the dirt of the street getting on his clean sheets – but then Digby pressed right up against him through the duvet and burrowed his head into Joe’s armpit, and Joe realised he was shaking.

His sheets be damned, then.

He sighed, and threw an arm around Digby’s shoulders, trying not to inhale too deeply until his nose got used to the very immediate smell of dog. He might not be able to find Smallwood’s killer – not with no DNA, nothing but a generic size ten bootprint and nowhere left to look – but _this_ , at least, he could do for him.

(He’d change the sheets in the morning.)

 

* * *

 

He came into work the next morning with Miles’ words ringing in his ears: Katya Jadczak had died in the night.

 _Brain haemorrhage_ , Miles had told him on the phone, _it was very sudden, they couldn’t do anything for her,_ and Joe had said yes and no in all the right places, and only washed his hands five times in the gents before going to sit behind his desk and wondering what the hell to do now.

 _Procedure,_ he decided, _start small, come on,_ interlacing his fingers on the surface of the desk and squeezing until his knuckles turned white, and the urge to start tapping and never stop died down. He’d told Miles not to call any of the others in early, not when there was nothing new for them to go on, so for now he was alone with only his thoughts.

He needed something… a drink? _No_ , his stomach immediately disagreed. Just – something to settle his mind. Something to give him back some semblance of control, so he could _think_ –

He reached for the paperclips.

He had made three neat lines of ten paperclips each and was working on the fourth when Miles appeared in his doorway; and Joe pushed down the flush of shame that always came with having his weaknesses observed, and counted under his breath, _thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty,_ before looking up.

“Riley’s in, she’s making a start,” Miles said as soon as he had Joe’s attention, jamming his hands in his pockets. His tie was askew, and most of his hair. “We’ll go over everything again, see if there’s anything we’ve missed. I’ll put Kent on cases in adjacent districts with similar MOs.”

It was hardly revolutionary, but Joe couldn’t help feeling pathetically grateful all the same. He was feeling no better than he had the day of the second burglary – _frayed_ somehow, the weight of responsibility rapidly becoming too heavy to bear – and _shit,_  the phone call, _I didn’t change the sheets –_

“Sorry,” he muttered, his hands reaching for the remaining paperclips entirely without his say-so, his eyes firmly down. “Sorry.” He fumbled, dropping a couple on top of the lines he’d already made and knocking them askew, picking them up again hurriedly – no, it was no good, it was all _ruined_ , and all he could think about was those dirty sheets on his bed, his skin prickling all over at the thought –

He startled when Digby’s nose nudged its way onto his lap, shoving at him gently until Joe buried his shaking fingers into the fur at his neck. He was faintly astonished when a few seconds of petting him eased his anxiety just enough that he could look back up, biting his cheek against the temptation to apologise yet again.

“The post-mortem won’t be for another few hours yet,” Miles pointed out; and it was only when he leaned against Joe’s desk and reached down to pat Digby’s flank that Joe realised he was waiting for him to answer.

“I need to go home. There’s – I forgot something.”

“Course. And then we’ll see what Llewellyn can tell us.”

Joe cleared his throat. “You’ll call me if anything important comes up?”

“Think we can’t manage? Go on, off with you,” Miles insisted, though there was a twinkle in his eye.

Joe did as he was told. He drove him, stripped his bed and put his sheets on to launder, and changed his suit for good measure, mindful of the dog hair decorating his left thigh. He washed his hands until the skin was red and chapped, and he felt like he could at least go on; he drove back to the office, where he drank a double vodka before following Miles obediently down to the lab, unable to help cringing when he saw Katya Jadczak lying dead under the harsh white light, even though it was hardly the most gruesome thing he’d seen in his time.

It was so much worse because he’d seen her alive, all soft skin and softer breathing, nearly lost in the hum of machines. Looking like she was sleeping.

Back at his desk he had another swig from the flask, and let Digby park himself between his legs, scratching him behind the ears, focusing on the movement of his own fingers. When his thoughts were this scattered it was best to think of something else entirely, such as what had suddenly made Digby so affectionate. Was he doing something better? Apart from last night – which he wasn’t going to think about, or his sheets – was it just that a little time had passed, and Digby was slowly starting to get used to him? Their trial week was almost up.

What if Joe couldn’t keep him?

He couldn’t kid himself that anyone could step inside the door of his flat and not realise what he was like. That he wasn’t normal. Surely dogs needed to be able to jump in muddy ponds and that sort of thing, without owners who worried constantly about dirt and contamination. They needed free, uncomplicated affection; families, preferably. Not someone like him at all.

Digby nudged him, and he realised his hands had stilled. He hurriedly started scratching again.

Having Digby – scratching him – did help, in the same way that an interesting case did (at least when it wasn’t making him worse). It gave him something else to focus on, and even the murky thoughts of everywhere Digby’s head might have been were muted by the realisation that something else was more important than his own neuroses, and had to take priority.

Perhaps that was it. Something as simple as having someone to care for, someone who needed him.

He looked up at the sound of rapping against his doorframe.

It was Kent, bursting with ill-concealed triumph, and Joe couldn’t help the hope that blossomed in his heart at the sight –

“I’ve found another case, sir. Two days ago. MO’s a match.” Kent was positively vibrating with excitement. “There’s DNA.”

 

* * *

 

The burglar had struck for the third time in Southwark, and between DCI Tomlinson’s team and his, the two cases were wrapped up with beautiful efficiency: the DNA led to a man with previous for petty theft, which led to a baseball bat wedged behind the washing machine that contained traces of blood from the three victims; and when Joe had received the call that an arrest had successfully been made just outside the suspect’s local in Camberwell, he closed the case file with that brief, fleeting sense of satisfaction that he’d righted these particular wrongs to the best of his ability. That justice, at least, had been served, even if it would never bring Ron and Katya back to the people who loved them.

He sensed eyes on him – and looked automatically at Digby, who was looking at the doorway, where Kent was… well. _Hovering_ was really the only word for it.

“Are you coming for a drink, sir?”

“Sorry.” Joe waved a hand in the direction of the dog bed, the excuse coming easily. “I can’t really leave him.”

“Oh, I’m sure it would be okay. We can go somewhere else if he’s not allowed in The Crown.”

“No, it’s okay.” Joe made himself smile. “Thank you, though. Have a good evening.”

“You too, sir,” Kent replied with what even Joe registered as disappointment, lingering for a final half-second before turning and closing Joe’s door softly behind him.

A glance to the side showed that Digby was looking at him again.

Joe waited until he heard the incident room door open and close again before pointing out, “He’s one of my officers.” He was uncomfortably aware that he was justifying himself to a dog, but unable to help it all the same. “We shouldn’t even be _friends_.”

 _But you like him, don’t you,_ Digby’s insistent stare seemed to say. _And he clearly likes you._

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. And it doesn’t matter anyway. Even if I did… he would want things I can’t give.”

He had always known that saying it out loud would make him feel distinctly silly.

He hadn’t been prepared for it to _hurt_ , however.

Alice would have given him a hug, and said something reassuring; Digby just cocked his head to one side for a moment and then straightened it again, looking distinctly unconvinced.

“Bloody hell. You’re as bad as Miles,” Joe told him.

It made him feel a little better.

“Besides. We really do have to get everything ready for our home visit tomorrow. I have to convince the nice lady from Battersea that I actually know how to look after you.” He gathered up his things one by one from the desk in front of him before standing, shrugging his coat on and picking up Digby’s lead.

“What do you say, boy? Home?”

Digby came over and bumped his head against Joe’s leg; and as he reached down to pat his head he saw Digby’s tail wag for the first time – thumping once, twice against the edge of the desk, before falling still.

“Yes,” Joe answered for the both of them, unable to help grinning as he clipped the lead onto Digby’s collar, and gave it a gentle tug. “Home.”


End file.
